Chapter Text
Prologue
The orcs broke against the eastern ridge before sunset. Below, the slope dropped into smoke and churned mud where the field had been torn open.
Celebrimbor stood at the edge with his helm tucked beneath one arm. Behind him, the crimson standard snapped in the wind, its silver eight-rayed star catching the last of the dying light.
His soldiers watched him.
Not because he was their king—he was not—and not because authority demanded it. They watched because they had chosen to. Because they had known him since he was a curious elfling. Because what stood behind them had once been empty stone and had become walls, roads, forges, and homes beneath the silver hands they trusted.
“Enough retreat,” Celebrimbor said.
His voice was not loud, but it carried with that peculiar clarity some people possessed.
“You know these lands. You built them. Every stone behind us was raised by hands greater than theirs.”
He lifted his sword.
“Drive them out!”
The answer came at once—The cry rolled over the plain.
Annatar remained beneath the shadow of the ridge and watched:
Strands of dark hair loosened by the wind, the smear of blood along the edge of his silver vambrace, the slight turn of his head before speaking.
Small things. Things no one else seemed to see.
It irritated him more than it should have that there was so much distance between them whenever Celebrimbor stood among his people.
He reminded himself that Celebrimbor would always belong there—nowhere else.
But if Celebrimbor was beside him... the Elves would follow.
The thought should have ended there.
Instead, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be the first person Celebrimbor looked at when he turned.